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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583012">Cicada Song</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedphrases/pseuds/borrowedphrases'>borrowedphrases</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Deep Space Nine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aging, Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Planet, Character Development, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Footnotes, Gardens &amp; Gardening, Getting Together, Home and Family, Light Angst, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Podfic Welcome, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-War, Rebuilding, Recovery, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:29:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,554</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583012</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedphrases/pseuds/borrowedphrases</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cardassia with Julian. After the war.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Julian Bashir/Elim Garak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fandom 5K 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cicada Song</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is accurate to the canon of the show, but not the deuterocanon of the novels/games/etc. I've borrowed some concepts and details from <a href="https://memory-beta.fandom.com">Memory Beta</a>, but have put my own spin on them. I've also ignored most of the "established" fanon for Cardassians in favor of doing my own worldbuilding, because I'm very passionate about my Space Snakes, which may be similar and may be entirely different from what others have done before me.</p><p>I tried something out here where I adjusted the names used for each character in the narrative as the characters start using more personal names in the dialogue. Hope it isn't too jarring.</p><p>I'm sure I've missed typos as I've edited this beast, please excuse them. I will no doubt be fixing them as I fuss over this for the next several days.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The radiance of the Cardassian sun is almost like a weight against the back of his neck, warming his scales and spreading heat down into his blood. After so many years spent off-world, feeling chilled and brittle to the bone, the heat of the mother sun is in many ways like a soothing balm. Yet - <em>and</em> yet - it doesn't quite live up to memory, doesn't quite bring the same comfort it once did. Garak wonders, during moments like this when his thoughts are all alone, when he'd become so accustomed to the rhythmic motions of physical labor to allow his mind to wander <em>aimlessly</em>, if it is a psychological disconnection, and, if so, what it might be related to: the long time he's spent away from home, how many years older he is since the last time his feet stood firm and free on Cardassian ground, or the devastation that scars both his heart and his homeworld in equal measure.</p><p>Perhaps he's simply tried, bone-weary from so many days spent shifting through the rubble of metal and stone, rescuing the rare survivor, and burying the multitude of dead. The scales of his hands, fingertips once so sensitive he could detect the slightest imperfection in a measure of silk, have been worn glossy and smooth. Every trembling hand he grasps feels farther and farther away, every stilled pulse-point he checks more dull and distant than the last. Some nights he returns home so exhausted and disheartened that he is unable to stop his himself from weeping. Yet - and <em>yet!</em> - every morning he steps back out into the coral light of his Cardassia and a wave of calm washes over him.</p><p>The work is backbreaking, seemingly never ending. His life may end long before Cardassia Prime has been rebuilt, long before Cardassia as a people has been returned to any thread of glory. He may never see an end to the work of clearing the debris and the dead. <em>But it's work worth doing,</em> he thinks to himself - in a voice that sounds more like Mila's than he would care to admit - as his mouth twists wryly at one corner, wondering when exactly he became so accustomed to simple, uncomplicated work.</p><p>"Garak!" A voice, familiar in a warm yet distant sort of way, disrupts the winding pattern of his thoughts. It brings a sense of comfort to his heart, a fondness in his chest he'd almost forgotten about among all the defeat and despair.</p><p>Blinking both sets of eyelids against the brightness of the morning, Garak turns from the debris he's working to clear to glance around the area, drawing the details of his wider surroundings back into focus as his pupils adjust. He's alone here, what remains of his people spread too thin to work in pairs or groups unless absolutely necessary, so it's not at all difficult to spot the lone figure drawing near. The ruddy late-morning sky is bright behind them, leaving their features mostly in shadow, but Garak would recognize that lean frame even if it had been decades since he last laid eyes on him, though his form does move with a bit less bounce in his step than when he first watched those hips sway across the Promenade of Terok Nor.</p><p>"Why, my dear Doctor," Garak glides his palms down the front of his tunic, as if it isn't just as dust and dirt covered as his hands are, as his everything is. He sidesteps his way around and out of what remains of a military institute's foundation, offering his old friend a bow of his head in greeting. "What brings you to my esteemed homeworld? I can't imagine it's the first choice of many Starfleet officers for rest and relaxation."</p><p>Bashir's smile - an echo of the boyish one Garak used to know so well, now tempered by grace of age and the horrors of war - is gentle and warm as he draws near. He shifts a satchel over his shoulder, and Garak takes note of the fact that his manner of dress is not the formlessness uniformity of color-coded Starfleet issue, but rather simple civilian attire in smokey earth tones. The neckline of his tunic opens and plunges down to a low point, baring one side of his clavicle, and on the left breast he wears a simple brooch: a single copper serpent wound around a silver staff.</p><p>"Here on business, I see." Garak says before Bashir can answer, reaching to glide his fingertips over the adornment. His gaze flicks up to take in Bashir's face in greater detail - the whisper of grey at his temples, the shadow of stubble along his jaw - then shifts those details to the back of his mind, safekeeping them so he might mull them over later on. "But not Starfleet business."</p><p>Bashir ducks his head down, the sheepish posture of a prey animal, averting his gaze from Garak's questioning one and scuffing the sole of one boot through the coppery dirt. "I've taken a leave of absence, actually. I thought my talents might be better put to use helping out here, since I'm possibly the only non-Cardassian doctor with any proper experience treating Cardassians."</p><p>A fair and honest answer, at least not a <em>dis</em>honest one. There's more to it that Bashir is leaving unsaid, a wound that has scarred over before properly healing, Garak can tell from how tightly he grips the strap of his bag, from the gravel that scratches his voice. He won't pry - not yet - he understands more than most the value of half truths and concealed hurts. Perhaps Bashir has learned a great deal more from him than Garak thought. Now if he could only decide whether that's truly a good thing or not. He used to know, used to be certain about a great many accepted truths in his life, but now...</p><p>"Well," Garak gives himself a small shake, drawing his hand away when he realizes he's been lingering his fingertips over Bashir's brooch, over Bashir's chest - long and lean, so oddly refreshingly un-Cardassian - his thumb resting light against the slick warmth of bare skin. "It is good to see you again, my dear Doctor, whatever the depth of your reasons may be."</p><p>"Ga<em>rak</em>." Bashir's voice ascends on the last syllable of his name, like he's rolling the sharp, acidic sound of it to the back of his tongue but can't quite bring himself to swallow the taste. "I think we've been through enough together by this point that you can use my name."</p><p>Garak's lips part ever so slightly, an aborted intake of breath, a half-realized sigh. His eyes flicker once, back and forth, <a id="return1" name="return1"></a>brille nictitating<sup><a href="#note1"><span class="small">1</span></a></sup> against the dust in the steadily drying air. He wavers, not exactly hesitating, more weighing his options against one another, deciding how personal he wants to make this and how much familiarity is being offered. </p><p>"Very well." Garak speaks softly, quietly like a secret is passing between them, even though they're alone for at least a kilometer round. "Julian."</p><p>Bashir - No. <em>Julian's</em> smile may just put the light of Cardassia's sun to shame.</p><p>↭</p><p>The moon is a thumbnail of gold dipping low toward the horizon as it nears its <a id="return2" name="return2"></a>first setting<sup><a href="#note2"><span class="small">2</span></a></sup> of the night. Soon only the stars will light the middle-night sky, glittering in patterns predating even the dawn of the Hebitian Age. The fanged mask, the double blade, the eye, the crown, the cup. He knows most of them, the ones that are remembered at all, that haven't been lost to the endless re-writings of history and the pragmatisms of scientific discovery. He remembers being a child, already discouraged from imaginative flights of fancy by his then-benefactor Tain, looking up at those same stars with carefully concealed wonder while thinking over how it was said that there were so-called primitive species who tried to find insight into the paths of time in the shapes and motions of the stars around their worlds. He remembers looking up at the glittering sky before the second moonrise and finding his own shapes and patterns. He remembers his heart aching for reasons he still can't properly explain.</p><p>Garak hears the light tapping of a padd closing, then the slightly sticky pat of feet across the stone floor announce Julian's presence, the night just still and quiet enough for his hearing to pick up on it. Then there's the louder sound of a shoulder popping, and a greatly satisfied groan. Garak smiles to himself, but waits for Julian to properly announce himself before acknowledging his presence.</p><p>"You know," Julian hovers in the doorway to stretch out until there's a second pop from his back. His arms swing at his sides, back and forth and back again, and then he lowers himself down beside Garak, letting his long legs hand off the edge of their modest porch, toes just barely reaching the warm, damp soil. He hums lazily, head thumping back against the wall behind them, then continues his thought. "It's been three months and I still haven't gotten used to this biphasic sleep pattern you have here. I almost miss the complete lack of sleep I was passably maintaining during the war."</p><p>Garak laughs softly, a low vibration that starts deep in his chest and radiates out to hum along the scales of his ridges. His eyes have grown heavy as the moon, readying to close and whisk him off to a few steady hours of sleep before rising with it again. The air is still thick, the humidity of the moonlit night repairing the damage the dryer heat of the day havocs upon his scales. Curiously, Julian seems to prefer the day, often working right through the midday sleep cycle, through the most bright arid hours, when all the rest of <a id="return3" name="return3"></a>Cardassia sleeps.<sup><a href="#note3"><span class="small">3</span></a></sup> The humidity clings to Julian's skin, collecting with his sweat to wet his brow and trickle down from his smokey grey sideburns. When Garak breathes in through parted lips so he can taste the salt of it at the meeting of his <a id="return4" name="return4"></a>vomeronasal<sup><a href="#note4"><span class="small">4</span></a></sup> and his palate, rich and savory, blending in a most pleasant way with the spices of the scented oils Julian uses to care for his golden skin.</p><p>"Was that a message from the Counselor you were answering?" Garak asks after a few moments of quiet, nothing but the hum of the distant city disrupting the quiet night.</p><p>"Dax? Haven't heard from her since she went back to Trill." There isn't resentment or sadness or any hint of regret in Julian's posture nor tone. Garak makes a mental note of the formal use of her surname, rather than the familiarity her personal one, but decides not to comment. Best to let that issue lie as it is and not poke it awake.</p><p>"No, that was from Miles." And here Julian's voice becomes distant, a dull sadness threading through his words. "Seems Keiko's pregnant again, so life back on Earth must agree with him."</p><p>Warm silence spreads between them again, and Garak has to bite back the question he wants to ask, has been dying to ask. Is <em>afraid</em> to ask. So he merely hums, low and soft, enjoying the warm, of Julian's presence until he can barely keep his eyes open.</p><p>"I must admit," Garak swallows down a yawn, his vision going hazy as his brille glide into place over his eyes, threatening to take his eyelids along with them before he's ready to 'turn in', as the humans say. "It's reassuring to have you here and mostly awake while I sleep. I am certain that most, if not all, of my old enemies are quite dead, but you never know what they might have left behind. Revenge is a multi-generational affair for Cardassians. Well, at least it was."</p><p>"I don't think you have much to worry about these days." Garak hears Julian's voice, in a far off sort of way, dulling steadily as Garak begins to lose the fight against sleep, the stars blurring across his vision before they're obscured entirely. His body sags as the tension he carries within him eases. He's drifting off to sleep, unwilling and unable to resist anymore. He's just barely awake enough to feel the drag of the stone wall behind him as he droops to the side.</p><p>"But just in case," Julian's words might just be the beginnings of a dream, or they may be real and blending <em>into</em> the beginnings of a dream. He feels his jaw ridge bump against the ball of Julian's shoulder, and then the warm encircling of Julian's arm around him. He slides fully into dreams just as the moon passes beyond the horizon.</p><p>"I'll watch out for assassins while you sleep."</p><p>↭</p><p>It feels good to have his hands back in freshly tilled ground, damp and rich and dark, free of broken stone and heat-warped metal. It's good to slide his overworked, too-smooth scales into Cardassian soil, to pull up unwanted flora and see that only beneficial fauna are wriggling around just beneath the surface. It's been so long since he's been able to garden, to enjoy the simple pleasure of growing things. He works seeds down into the dirt. He plants fruits and roots and leaves that will provide nutritious food, fortifying teas, and healing herbs for himself and Julian, so that others who are unable to plant can have a greater share of the communal relief rations donated from off-world. He plants herbs for flavor and health, many of the medicinal varieties Julian brought with him six months prior, little bits of hope that waited out the scorching summer months for the <a id="return5" name="return5"></a>time of planting.<sup><a href="#note5"><span class="small">5</span></a></sup> They may not be native to Cardassia Prime, but they'll be welcomed as if they were by those that need them. He plants treasured flowers, all that remains of his personal collection - he was so very sentimental back during his more youthful years, he wonders just when those feelings started up again - and whatever he can salvage from beneath the rubble. Some of the flowers are edible, a few medicinal, but most are just meant to be flowers, to bring some color to a world that was almost turned to ash.</p><p>Garak is just completing a row of carefully spaced root vegetable seeds when a sudden shadow drops over his eyes, a gentle weight settling down upon his head. A lesser Cardassian might have startled - Garak can't remember the last time anything truly startled him. Surprised, certainly. But startled? Not in a <em>long</em> long time - but Garak simply blinks down at his freshly misshapen shadow then rolls his eyes skyward to glimpse the brim of what could only be a hat of some fashion. He leans back, settling his backside down onto his calves, and brushes his hands over his thighs before reaching up to tug the item is question off his head. A few locks of greying hair that have rebelled from his hair tie brush at his cheeks and tickle at the ridge of his nose. Before he can push them away, soft fingers do it for him, guiding them back toward the rest and gently tucking them behind his ear.</p><p>After a solid, steadying swallow, Garak offers Julian a brief smile, then turns his attention back to the hat that now rests in his lap. It's a wide-brimmed style, woven of a reedy material Garak isn't familiar with but is reminiscent of a Bajoran basket. It's domed in the middle and lightly floppy in stiffness. </p><p>"It's a sun hat." Julian offers, prompted by Garak's puzzled silence. He plops down beside Garak, crossing his long legs in front of him, mindful of the freshly sowed garden, and taking the hat back to settle it loosely down onto his own head. "It's a traditional gardening accessory from Earth. You wear it to keep the sun out of your eyes and your head from overheating - or scalp burning, especially if you're of a lighter complexion than I am."</p><p>It's such an unusual style, but it's charming in a quaintly exotic sort of way, at least that's how it looks on Julian. "I think its purpose might be better suited for your head than mine."</p><p>Julian smiles sheepishly, though Garak detects no real depth of embarrassment from him. His eyes are alight with mirth, the apples of his cheeks subtly flushed from the afternoon sun. A few damp tendrils of his bangs have stuck to his forehead, but other than a light gloss of sweat on his brow, Julian seems to be adapting to the hotter climate with with impressive ease.</p><p>"I think it was my grandmother's? I'm not really sure how I ended up inheriting it." Julian takes the hat off his head and twirls it around his fingers by the inside of the dome a few times.</p><p>So it's an heirloom, something a honored elder once owned. Garak isn't fluent in the nuances of human culture, but for a Cardassian such an item is treasured, passed down along with the memories or stories of those who came before. When such a keepsake is given away it means the recipient is as dear as a blood relative, someone who is or will soon be welcomed into a family. Garak doesn't know if Julian is aware of any of this or not, but he does know how broken and complicated the concept of family is for the both of them, and he will take the gesture to heart, whatever the intended meaning.</p><p>"I just found it in with the belongings of mine that arrived last week and I thought about how bright sunlight hurts your eyes, like the lights back on the station." Julian gently fans himself with the brim. "It's silly. You don't have to wear it."</p><p>"Nonsense." Garak plucks the hat from Julian's long fingers, giving the incredibly lightweight hat a little toss into the air. He lets it spin once or twice as it comes back down, catching it with dexterous fingers and then settling it back onto his own head, this time making sure any wayward hairs are tucked back neatly as he adjusts the hat to an agreeable angle. "My scales may not need protection from sunlight, but my eyes <em>could</em> always use a bit more help against the brightness. I quite like it."</p><p>Garak flashes his brightest smile at Julian, tilting his head to what he feels is a quite fetching angle. "What do you think? How do I look?"</p><p>Julian's face softens, his smile passing through a complex series of motions before it settles on something carefully gentle, a curious mix of guarded and vulnerable. What to make of it, Garak isn't sure, and maybe that's the honest point behind this entire exchange.</p><p>"Charming." Julian supplies, in a way that Garak can tell was meant to sound lightly teasing, perhaps even fondly sarcastic. The sincerity, unintended as it may have been, twists into Garak's chest, bores its way in between his ribs and makes a nest for itself between his lungs. It's a sensation Garak is growing more and more familiar with, though familiarity hasn't made it ache any less.</p><p>↭</p><p>The sun is low on the horizon, the moon just beginning to rise above it, when Garak steps out onto their little porch, end-of-day meal in hand. Their first harvest was mildly fruitful - as expected of one so early in the warming months - and he's looking forward to sharing the results of his hard work with Julian once he returns home from the clinic. There's a small bottle of un-aged kanar on the table beside their humble meal. Nearly virgin, it's some of the first kanar vinted since the Dominion Occupation, a fitting bit of indulgence as the anniversary of the liberation of the Cardassian people, even if most of their world still lay in ruins. With respect to Julian's tastes, Garak had also prepared chilled Tarkalean sweet tea for him to enjoy with their meal.</p><p>It's been happening more and more often - only noticed after the fact, and with increasing internal reflection that never seems to go anywhere constructive these days - these words of familiarity, of <em>family</em>, creeping into his thoughts and his speech. Their garden, their meal, their… <em>home</em>. Julian has gradually occupied more and more of Garak's small residence with his presence, more items finding their way within, mingling with Garak's, becoming <em>their</em> things. Julian doesn't even have a bedroom, just a cot that he sets up in the main room when he actually manages to rest during sleep cycles. He hasn't- Julian doesn't <em>live</em> there, Garak has to remind himself more and more often. He hasn't <em>moved in</em>, it's not their <em>shared</em> home. Julian is only taking a leave of absence from his career as a Starfleet doctor and officer. His time here is finite, and someday, undoubtedly someday soon, his career will be calling on him to catch up with it again. Someday soon he will need to return to his own life.</p><p>Garak closes his eyes, inhaling deep and slow, calming his thoughts and pushing away unnecessarily complicated emotions. Tonight he will share a meal with Julian, who will honestly compliment or criticize Garak's efforts. They will bicker and banter and watch the day's sun-set and the night's first moon-rise. Julian will retire to his cot not too long after sun-set, because he still operates mostly on the monophasic sleep cycle of Earth. Garak will watch him sleep, for a time, then he will tend to the garden's night-thriving plants before heading into the city to see what help he can be.</p><p>The sun is a half circle on the line of the horizon when Julian makes his way up the narrow, dusty path leading home, a halo of fire behind him, slowly forging him into a dark and elegant silhouette. The closer his approach draws the more details come into focus, until Garak realizes there isn't one lean figure walking the path, but two. With neck ridges prickling, heating up from old reptilian instincts, Garak nearly rises from his chair to make himself ready to guard what's <em>his</em>. With an even, calming breath he stamps down the need to protect, protect, <em>protect</em> when he sees that Julian's own posture is casual and relaxed, that there is no real cause for alarm.</p><p>"Garak!" Julian's voice calls as he and his companion start up the cobblestones leading from the narrow path to their little porch. The sun is still very bright behind them, but with some of heavy squinting, and a bit more distance crossed, Garak finally recognizes the friend Julian has brought home.</p><p>"Commander Kira?" Garak's voice is a mix of genuine and affected delight as the pair reach the porch. "Or I should probably address you as Colonel now, since you're no longer donning that unflattering Starfleet uniform."</p><p>"It's good to see you too, Garak." Kira greets him with warm laughter and an honest smile, one Garak never thought would be aimed even askance of his direction. "I'm not here representing anyone but myself this time, so just Nerys is fine."</p><p>Garak finds himself floundering, his mouth working silently over the name, his tongue adjusting to its shape before giving it sound. He glances at Julian, searches his eyes for an explanation that isn't there - just foolishly open affection - then carefully clears his throat so as not to fumble.</p><p>"So what brings you back to Cardassia, Nerys, if not official business?" Garak steps aside, gesturing for her to walk ahead of him through the open door of their home. He gives Julian another searching look once he's faced with her back, but Julian just shrugs one shoulder, reaching the other arm out to give Garak's bicep a patronizingly reassuring pat.</p><p>"I'm sorry if I'm imposing," Nerys says as she finds one of the few sitting chairs they have and settles down with a soft groan of relief. She rubs at the back of her neck as she glances back toward the door. "It looks like you were all ready to sit down to dinner."</p><p>"Oh, it's quite alright." Garak retrieves the medley of vegetables and nuts from the porch and sets the bowls down on the small dining table. "We have a bit more from our first harvest left, so I can make it stretch to three people, if you haven't already eaten."</p><p>"That's okay, you enjoy your meal, I have plenty of rations back where I'm staying." She shakes her head as she looks out at the dome of sunlight sinking lower and lower into the horizon. "I'm still on Bajor time anyway, nowhere near dinner there."</p><p>"You were saying you're here for unofficial reasons?" Julian repeats Garak's inquiry as he retrieves the pitcher of tea and bottle of kanar from the porch, brushing against Garak as he passes. He sets the tea down on the table beside the salad, then presses the small bottle of kanar into Garak's hand. Garak refuses to entertain the thought that Julian is purposefully letting his fingers linger against his palm, that Julian is intentionally drawing his hand away so that his knuckles brush the back of Garak's hand.</p><p>"I'm primarily here to pay my respects to Damar at the memorial." Nerys sighs, a slow and careful thing, unwavering, but Garak suspects that's only from a great force of will. He settles into a chair beside her, close, but even with the privilege of her personal name he doesn't feel it's his place to offer her any form of physical comfort. She gives him a sidelong glance, meeting his eyes. She knows the gesture is there, if unexpressed between them, and she's grateful for his empathy as well as his restraint.</p><p>A small shadow seems to pass over Julian's face, and he quietly ducks out of the main room to busy himself in some way inside the kitchen. Garak sees a tension in his shoulder before he turns the corner, and wonders if it's something he should ask about later when it's back to just the two of them. He tucks the thought away to consider fully later on.</p><p>"It's a lovely tribute to him and the other fallen." Garak tells her quietly. "A peaceful spot in the restored park. I make sure to visit whenever I have business in the Capital's."</p><p>"I was thinking about saying a small mourning prayer for Damar." Nerys lowers her gaze, voice softening further. "If that wouldn't be disrespectful."</p><p>"I think that would be acceptable." Garak tells her honestly. "Whatever those who may see you might think, they will leave you to your traditions, and I think Damar would be touched that you thought highly enough about him to honor him like that."</p><p>A wordless moment passes between them, the sort of quiet that can tell the whole story of a hard won rebellion, the kind of moment that can only pass between people who've lived in hiding for weeks on end.</p><p>"But I also wanted to check up on you two." Nerys says after shaking off the moment, giving Garak a pointed look then turning her head toward the kitchen and raising her voice so it will carry. "It's been, what? Seven months? You don't call, you don't write. Everyone was starting to think you'd died."</p><p>"Nine months, actually. Since I got here." Julian says as he slips back into the main room, a pair of cups for the tea balanced in one hand, a small snifter for Garak's kanar held carefully in the other. He hands out the drinkware and pours Nerys a glass of the sweetened tea, then takes a seat at the small, comfortably crowded, table. "I <em>am</em> sorry, Nerys. I've just been so busy with the clinic and helping out with reconstruction whenever I'm not ready to drop from that, it hadn't even occurred to me that I haven't checked in at all."</p><p>"Well," Nerys takes a long and clearly satisfying sip of her tea, making a sound of obvious relief when she draws in a breath after. "I'll stop scolding you about it for now, but expect to get an earful from me before I head back to Bajor."</p><p>"That seems only fair." Julian laughs warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. There's something about the way the last rays of sunlight are hitting him as they spill in through the open door that arrests Garak's gaze. His skin, so smooth even with age beginning to show at his corners, glows more beautiful than the purest, rare jevonite.</p><p>His throat suddenly dry, Garak pours himself a generous glass of the kanar.</p><p> </p><p>They drink and catch up and reminisce until Julian, with a surprising two cups of kanar in him, is nodding off into his tea, until the dying fire of the sunlight shining in through the open door transitions into softly gilded moonlight, until the moon is beginning to kiss the horizon for the first time that night. Nerys stays long enough to help with maneuvering Julian to his cot, then Garak walks with her out onto the porch.</p><p>"Are you sure you don't need some company for the walk back?" Garak offers, hovering on the porch as Nerys steps down onto the cobblestones. "Order hasn't been fully reestablished to Cardassian standards just yet, and after the first moon-set it can be difficult to navigate during the dark hours before it rises again. Even for someone with your heightened eyesight."</p><p>"I'll be alright, it's not very far." Nerys turns to face him, and there is a look on her face that Garak is quite familiar with, though he can't fathom why she would be aiming it toward him just now. It's a wavering searching with the eyes, a wrinkle to the mouth that pulls the lips downward in the middle and up at the corners.</p><p>Garak offers her one of his disarming smiles, though he's unsure how successful or trustworthy the result may be. He's grown rather out of practice obfuscating his deeper emotions; there hasn't been much need when the only other person he really spends extended time with is Julian. While Julian hasn't quite mastered how to read him yet, Garak finds more and more than he doesn't want to hide himself from him. He wonders - idly in the back of his mind, the forefront's attention on Nerys - just when he began to trust Julian with so much of himself.</p><p>"Listen, Garak," Nerys begins, then pauses, thumping one loose fist gently against the railing. "I may be overstepping here, I know we haven't exactly been the best of friends over the years. But I… I've known Julian for a long time now and I think you really need to talk with him."</p><p>Garak tilts his head to one side, regarding Nerys for a steady moment. "I can assure you, Nerys, Julian and I talk with one another quite often."</p><p>Nerys looks back at Garak, meeting his eyes steadily. There's a depth to her gaze that speaks volumes, far more than her words are ready, or able, to give away. She's worried about Julian, maybe even concerned for them both - imagine that - but she's also guarded, protecting a confidence she doesn't feel she should break. It must be such a difficult position for her to be in.</p><p>Finally she says this: "You should talk to him about his leave of absence."</p><p>Garak holds her gaze for a few more moments, then nods very slowly.</p><p>They make plans to visit Damar's memorial together, as former rebels-in-arms, and say their good evenings to one another. Garak remains on the porch to watch her moonlit silhouette move through the humid air down the path until his eyes slip in their focus and he loses her to the landscape.</p><p>Garak sits on the porch for a long time, nursing a few more glasses of kanar and listening to the gentle hum of the night. For so many months after the war - after the lingering fires and delayed explosions burned themselves out, after the screams of the wounded and dying ceased - the nights had been filled with a crushing silence. It wasn't just sentient Cardassians that suffered the horrors the Dominion unleashed, but every creature and plant and body of water, every facet of life on the planet was affected, hushed once the dust settled. </p><p>Now, after a year of sorrow and suffering and stillness, the night is slowly being filled once again with the gentle hum of insects as they wake from chrysalides buried deep in the ground. They are waking up after years-long torpor to beat their fresh wings dry and take to the air as if nothing has changed. He can hear the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind, still low to the ground, sprouted from dried seeds that the fires had somehow missed. Not far away there's the bubble of a cold-weather stream that has forced its way back to flowing freely, what remains of the rubble pushed aside by the stubborn current. Cardassia as a people will need a long time to recover, more years probably that Garak has left in him. Cardassia Prime will need a long time to regrow, but, as it has before, as it no doubt will again and again, regrow it will. Their past is drenched in blood and death, starvation and poison and disease, but Cardassia will endure.</p><p>Garak watches the moon make its first descent of the night beyond the horizon line, waits until the stars show their true brightness against the smokey darkness. He finishes the last of the infant kanar, swirling the delicate flavor around on his tongue for a long moment and then swallowing. Not the best he's ever sampled, but not the worst either.</p><p>A soft groan escapes him as he rises from his chair to head inside, aging bones always feeling old these days, perhaps rushing to catch up with the whitening of his hair. He rubs at an old wound just above one of his knees, working at the angry twinge until the muscle finally softens and relaxes. The door softly clicks shut behind him, the room cast into heavy shadow with just the stars left shining through the single window. A blink and a nictitation opens his pupils, the details of the room becoming more clear. Julian lies curled beneath his thin blanket on his cot, spine bent in ways that only one of Earth's felines would find comfortable. His hair is a messy fan above his head, one cheek is smashed flat against his pillow, and his lips are parted as he wheezes the prelude to a proper rhythm of snores.</p><p>What gives Garak pause before he continues to his own bed, is a lump of heavily worn fabric clenched tightly in Julian's arms. It takes him a moment, but eventually he understands what he's looking at, remembering the bear Julian had mentioned once to him, a treasure from his childhood, his very first patient. He couldn't quite recall its name, but that was okay, Julian would just have to remind him again sometime. The thing that baffles him most is that he doesn't remember when exactly Julian's bear had arrived at their home. It must have been recently - Garak has looked in on a sleeping Julian more nights than he can count now - and the bear hadn't appeared before tonight.</p><p>"My dear, Julian." Garak murmurs, soft as a breath, as he reaches to glide feather-light fingertips through the young man's hair. No, not so young anymore, worn weary from so much death, hardened by the horrors of war. Still, like this, while he sleeps, Julian looks almost as young and dewy as he did that first day Garak spotted him across the Promenade.</p><p>Garak exhales slowly, a lengthy sigh that shakes through his chest, dislodging something inside him that makes the space beneath his lungs ache. He indulges himself by gliding the scales of his thumb pad over the smooth line of Julian's jaw. "What are you so afraid of."</p><p>↭</p><p>The cooler months have given way to warming and the garden is heavy and ready for a full harvest. Garak's hands are still worn smooth from moving rock and metal, but during his evening hours he finds himself gently selecting the fruits most ready to be plucked, the roots ready to be pulled, and the seeds ready to be dried. Julian's work has begun to ease up as the worst of the casualties have gradually been treated, for better or for worse, and now he arrives home with time to join Garak in their kitchen. The solar hearth helps them create a variety of dishes, which, while not always pleasant to look at, taste far better than anything they once dined on at the replimat. The small space means they work close, hips and hands and shoulders bumping and brushing. A gentle hand against the base of the spinal ridge to guide one out of the way of a steaming pot, a brushing touch between the shoulder blades to let the one wielding the knife know the other is passing behind. It's almost a dance some nights, their movements somehow synchronous despite their differences in shape and stature Eating a regular set of proper meals each day has added a bit of the old glow back back into Julian's visage, though it's somehow grown even more lovely with the light signs of aging. Garak's form has gained a bit of softness about the middle that he finds oddly satisfactory rather than shameful.</p><p>Anything they don't finish themselves they bring into town to contribute to the rehabilitation efforts. This is not a life Garak would have ever imagined for himself, one of hard manual labor and earnest cultivation, of earnest charity and care, but he's finding it agrees with him more with each day that passes. They sit out on the porch with each sunset, sharing their evening meal and a few glasses of kanar - Julian is even developing a taste for it, which makes Garak feel delightedly smug. It's a life that's simple almost to the point of being <em>dull</em>, and Garak has never felt so content.</p><p>And <em>yet-</em> It's been a <em>year</em>, a full and proper one by Starfleet's calendar, even if there's still a few months left to the Cardassian one. Julian's leave of absence must surely be coming to an end. Garak has been avoiding the topic, despite Nerys' ominous advice. Truthfully - and he's barely admitting this to himself - he's scared. Scared that Julian will take his questioning the wrong way, think he's overstayed his welcome and return to Starfleet early. Scared that Julian might actually <em>want</em> to stay, and of what that might mean, and of all the ways Garak could screw everything up if that turned out to be the case.</p><p>And yet he really can't keep putting it off, not when... the very sight of Julian walking up the path to their home - <em>theirs</em> - twists a warmth deeper and deeper into his chest, so deep by now he's certain it must have almost reached all the way to his heart. Not when the light of the moon glowing gold against Julian's skin quite literally takes his breath away. Not when a brush of the hand, a grip to the arm, a bump of the hips or a nudging of the shoulder, gradually wakes up a yearning inside him that he thought he assassinated long, <em>long</em> ago.</p><p>"Did you know, my dear, that you've been living here for a full one of your years?" Garak leaves the <em>with me</em> unsaid, even though it's implicit, even though he wants to beg stay, <em>stay</em>, stay <em>with me</em>.</p><p>Julian hums, casual as anything, though Garak can see the way his shoulders lift and tense, the way his fingers dig slightly into his thigh. </p><p>"You never did tell me," Garak feels a tightness low in his throat, a low grade sensation of suffocation, like he's in a small room and the walls are ever so slowly closing in on him. He tries to breathe evenly, tries to will his lungs to stop threatening to spasm, tries to focus on the vast sky spreading out around them. "Just how long your leave of absence is meant to last?"</p><p>The moment the words have flown from his lips he wants to bite clear through his own traitorous tongue, wants to split it down the middle and make it like the forked tongues of his distant ancestors. He wants to swallow his own blood until he chokes himself with it. Anything to take back the words that now hang between them. He'll do anything, give anything, to make Julian stay.</p><p>"I didn't." Julian's voice is hushed and clipped, the tension that is clear in his posture is even more clear in his speech. "And that's, well. That's because I didn't actually take a leave of absence."</p><p>Garak's head snaps in shock, neck ridges flaring as his wide eyes sweep over Julian's entire form. "You didn't take- Well, then what, <em>when</em>, exactly-"</p><p>"Garak-"</p><p>"<em>Elim!</em>" Garak's voice cracks, pathetic and desperate, breaking with a sound he hasn't heard since he all but begged a dying Enabran to acknowledge him as his son. This, he is startled to realize, may be even more important to him than his father's withheld approval. This human has become more family to him than his own blood ever was. "By the <a id="return6" name="return6"></a>visage,<sup><a href="#note6"><span class="small">6</span></a></sup> Julian, at least call me Elim <em>once</em> before you leave." <em>Before you leave me</em>.</p><p>"<em>Elim</em>," Julian breathes out the name without hesitation, his voice going soft and tremulous. He slips from his chair and moves to kneel in front of Elim's. He looks up at Elim, his open and honest face hiding nothing, showing Elim all the affection he feels for him. Julian holds Elim's gaze, hesitating for a long moment where Elim is scared to breathe. Then he takes Elim's hand. First it's just a pressing of their palms, a sign of fondness and friendship, yet a gesture that Elim has never shared with him before. Then, slowly, and with great care, he slides each one of his fingers in between Elim's and turns the pressing of their hands into a <a id="return7" name="return7"></a>proper gripping.<sup><a href="#note7"><span class="small">7</span></a></sup> It may be the most intimate interaction that Elim has ever experienced in all his long years.</p><p>"I didn't take a leave of absence." Julian tugs on Elim's hand, bringing it closer toward him, and, after Elim offers no resistance, he draws it in against his chest. "I resigned my commission."</p><p>"You-" Elim finds himself at a loss for what to say. This, of all scenarios he's mulled over in his mind the past few months, was certainly not one of them. "But you-"</p><p>"I was <em>tired</em>. I wasn't <em>helping</em> people anymore." Julian pauses to draw breath, chest shuddering from release of words so long held back. His heartbeat feels like thunder raging inside his chest, shaking right through into Elim's hand. Julian's heart may be shuddering, but his words are steady and clear. "So I left."</p><p>"So you did." Elim's gaze flickers back and forth, brille nictitating to clarify his vision so he may better search Julian's face, his own going passive as he forces on a mask of indifference. "And that's why you came here, where you could… help."</p><p>"That's why I came to <em>Cardassia</em>," Julian says, giving Elim's hand a tight squeeze to stop him from interrupting, and to stop him from pulling away. A bold gesture, one the Julian he first would never have considered. "I came to <em>you</em> because I missed you, Elim. I missed you enough to figure out what I had been feeling during every lunch we shared during every argument we fought during every lie you told me and every truth you concealed. I missed you enough to have all my possessions sent here so that I could slowly move in with you over even the slightest possibility that you might, one day, figure out that you feel the same."</p><p>Elim exhales, startled to find that he had been holding his breath. He gliding his tongue over his bottom lip to stop it from trembling, traitor that is it. His voice is rough, full of pain and elation and a deeply crushing terror. "I must ask, my dear, that you do not give a name to that feeling just yet. Someday, certainly, and if it's anything like what I have been feeling as we've shared this home over the past year, then I can say with almost absolute certainty that the feeling is most assuredly mutual. I don't- I just don't think- I can't bare the hear the words in your voice until I've been able to give them shape and sound within my mind."</p><p>Julian smiles, soft and warm, the boyish exuberance from years ago tempered by age and experience. He reaches with his free hand to trace the wide scales of Elim's neck ridges. A shudder of pleasure moves through Elim, and he closes his eyes to savor it. There’s a light bump against Elim's forehead, the touch of hands cupping the ridges of his jaw, and then something inside him breaks in two when soft, warm lips gently meet his own.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I tried to keep a sensation of grief here to a minimum, but it's hard to remove the feelings of loss entirely from a story about people who've survived a war. I hope the softness tempers, and the domesticity outweighs, the sadness.</p><h6>Footnotes</h6><p><a id="note1" name="note1"></a><b>1.</b> A nictitating membrane (from Latin <i>nictare</i>, to blink) is a transparent or translucent third eyelid present in many reptiles. I've combined that here with the brille, or immovable ocular scale, that snakes have covering their eyes.<span class="small">[<a href="#return1">return</a>]</span></p><p><a id="note2" name="note2"></a><b>2.</b> Cardassia Prime canonically has only one moon, but I thought it would be interesting if its revolution in relation to the planet's rotation gave it two risings and two setting each night.<span class="small">[<a href="#return2">return</a>]</span></p><p><a id="note3" name="note3"></a><b>3.</b> Cardassians like their heat humid and their light dim, so I have them sleeping twice a rotation: once during the brighter, dryer hours of middle-day, and then again during the chilled hours of middle-night.<span class="small">[<a href="#return3">return</a>]</span></p><p><a id="note4" name="note4"></a><b>4.</b> The vomeronasal organ is what snakes use to sense prey, sticking their tongue out to gather scents and touching it to the opening of the organ when the tongue is retracted.<span class="small">[<a href="#return4">return</a>]</span></p><p><a id="note5" name="note5"></a><b>5.</b> With the atmospheric calamity that ended the Hebitian Age, Cardassia Prime was reduced to desert, scrub and moor land. I've set their planting season in what we would call autumn with harvest during the spring. Though the Cardassian word for their cold season would more accurately translate to "summer" in Federation Standard rather than "winter".<span class="small">[<a href="#return5">return</a>]</span></p><p><a id="note6" name="note6"></a><b>6.</b> Recitation masks feature in the Oralian Way, the religion of the Hebitians which continued to be practiced by some Cardassians in secret. I needed a curse and I thought swearing by the face of Oralius would make sense.<span class="small">[<a href="#return6">return</a>]</span></p><p><a id="note7" name="note7"></a><b>7.</b> For Cardassians pressing the palm of one's hand to another's palm is the equivalent of a kiss on the cheek. Julian is following that logic further to a full-hand grip as a sign of deeper feelings.<span class="small">[<a href="#return7">return</a>]</span></p></blockquote></div></div>
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